Mistletoe Mansion (20 page)

‘So why are so many photographers here, today?’ I asked.

She shrugged. ‘Probably some tart has made up some kiss ‘n’ tell story about Jonny. There’s no major championship for a while, so they’re looking for personal, newsworthy stuff. One of those slimy bastards did shout out something about a mystery blonde.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s all so clichéd. And amazing how many of those bimbos go quiet when you threaten legal action.’

Five minutes later, she was upstairs with me, sorting through my wardrobe. You’d think she was choosing some outfit to attend a fashion show, finally selecting white jeans with a designer (okay fake, but she was kind enough not to comment) leopard-print shirt. Then, in front of me, she stripped off and I almost gasped out loud at her washboard stomach and perfectly round boobs, clearly visible through a skimpy lace bra.

‘Jonny bought them for me,’ she said and wiggled her chest. ‘They were a first anniversary present.’ She handed her stained tracksuit bottoms and top over to me.

‘I’ll, um, just get changed,’ I muttered, and scuttled into the bathroom. I slipped on the velour tracksuit bottoms and rubbed the waistband between my fingers. Wow. They were so silky, I could hardly feel them on. I came out of the bathroom and smiled at Melissa. She lay on the bed, next to Groucho.

‘You’d think I could at least have a dog,’ she said, ‘but Jonny’s allergic.’

‘What would you get?’ I asked. ‘A tiny one?’

‘Oh no. Handbag mutts are sooo not on trend. Whereas a Corgi, that’s classy. If it’s good enough for the Queen…’ She stood up and cleared her throat. ‘Thanks for the help, Kimmy. To return the favour, why don’t you let me sort out that muffin top? I’ll send my personal trainer round; treat you to a couple of free sessions.’

She did have a point – I’d hardly managed to pull the tracksuit trousers over my size twelve hips. It would be nice to look toned, although I’d keep a few J-Lo curves. I’d be one of those celebrities the magazines praised for “keeping it real”.

Melissa eyed me for a moment. ‘Maybe carry a magazine in front of you. Otherwise they’ll think I’ve had a breast reduction.’ She stood up and headed for the door, but something silver stopped her dead in her tracks. She reached down to my bedside table. ‘I’ve seen those cards before. It belongs to one of the paparazzi.’ Her cheeks flushed. ‘I should have known better. You’re just like everyone else – not interested in the real Melissa Winsford, just after some dirt to sell.’

Surely she didn’t really believe I could be that low? ‘Accuse me of anything but that, Melissa – I don’t know why I kept it. The guy’s a creep.’ I snatched the card and tore it up.

‘Why should I believe you after the number of times I’ve been let down in the past? Like the nurse who told the papers about my varicose veins or the beautician who took a photo of me on her phone whilst I was having my top lip waxed.’

Hmm, I remembered that picture – not a flattering look. ‘Melissa, you don’t know me well, but I’m a loyal friend – just ask Jess. And the easiest way to insult me is to suggest I’m out to make a quick buck. I have long-term plans to earn money through my cake business – not get paid for selling secrets about people I like.’

She stared at me for a moment, and then shrugged. ‘I just don’t get it – all this interest in the trivial parts of celebrities’ lives. Imagine knowing if Audrey Hepburn had cellulite or Marilyn Monroe suffered from spots.’ She shook her head. ‘Tell me. What’s the appeal of reading about stuff like that?’

I thought for a moment. ‘It’s good to know that despite fame, people are still human, you know? Not much different to the rest of us. That way, maybe my life isn’t so bad. That way, maybe it’s possible that one day I’ll get me a life full of glamour and designer clothes and second homes abroad.’ I shrugged. ‘Anyway, if you’re a true fan, any news is totes interesting – what your favourite star eats for breakfast, how they met their boyfriend or girlfriend…’

‘But it’s gone too far nowadays. Let’s face it – James Dean wouldn’t be such an icon if we’d seen lots of photos of him with his fingers up his nose. But apparently it’s a two way thing – if I want coverage of my new DVD then I’ve no right to any privacy.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I’ll delete your phone number. Don’t call me again.’

‘I’d never contact those slimeballs outside!’ I followed Melissa onto the landing. ‘If that was my game, don’t you think I would have done so by now?’

‘With what story?’

‘How about finding out that you do use Botox? The magazines have been asking that for months now, quizzing specialists, asking for readers’ verdicts.’

She paused at the bottom of the stairs.

‘You can trust me,’ I said in a soft voice, and smiled. ‘Come on. Tell me your favourite cupcake. I’ll make some for tomorrow night. Terry from next door is coming over to watch telly and go in the hot tub. It’ll be just a cosy neighbourly night in.’

‘I don’t think so,’ she said, stiffly. ‘Jonny’s been away at some charity event and is back tomorrow. He’ll want to catch up – maybe take me to dinner.’

‘Suit yourself, but it could be a laugh.’ She looked like she needed a good night out. ‘My mind’s boggling at what Terry’s swimsuit will be like. Let’s pray it’s not an Ali G sling bikini!’ I shuddered. ‘Or one of those new one-sided thong swimsuits…’

Melissa caught my eye and despite herself, half-smiled back. ‘Suppose I could pop over for an hour.’

‘And the cupcakes?’

She sniffed. ‘How about a Christmas one, to get me in the festive mood? I’ve had to do all the decorating at home… Jonny’s not interested.’ Melissa bit her lip. ‘Christmas… Really it’s about kids, isn’t it?’

‘Yes – us big kids as well,’ I said, gently. ‘How about… ooh… gingerbread ones, with nut and chocolate buttercream icing on top – a skinny recipe, of course?’

Melissa licked her lips and nodded.

‘Vivian rang for your number, by the way,’ she said, as we headed back to the patio doors. ‘I gave her your mobile number. If you really want your business to do well, though, you should enter the cake competition at the Harpenden Christmas Market. Jonny was the guest of honour last year. It’s not as big as the July Highland Gathering, or Christmas lights’ switch-on, but still, lots of local companies and farmers get involved – it’s a last-minute chance to buy food and gifts for Christmas. There are various craft-makers demonstrating their art, a big raffle, lots of festive food to buy… Mulled wine on sale, and lots of ideas for presents.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s not a bad afternoon out, as long as the weather holds. The guy who owned this house, Walter, his wife won the cake competition several times. And apparently a few years back, someone trying to launch their own cake-icing company entered and on the back of winning got loads of orders.’ She yawned. ‘The wives at the golf club were going on and on about it at the last dinner we went to.’

‘When is it?’

‘Saturday after next. The twenty-third, the day before Christmas Eve. Jonny’s agreed to launch the balloons that kick it off.’

That gave me, ooh… ten days, to think of a winning idea, practice it and… ‘Aren’t I too late to enter?’

‘Guess I could swing a late registration for you, if you like.’

At that moment the front door clicked open and I nipped into the hallway.

‘Jess? You’re home early. What’s happened?’

Chest heaving, Jess darted into the downstairs loo. I hadn’t heard retching like that since the time macho Adam tried to show off that he could stomach a Vindaloo curry.

I dashed in after her and held her hair away from her face as she bent over the sink, but she pushed me away.

‘I can manage,’ she croaked.

‘At least let me get you a glass of water.’ Minutes later, I returned with a tumbler-full. Melissa was in the kitchen, scrutinising her reflection in the patio door windows before following me. She waited in the hallway as I went into the loo.

‘Kimmy? Are you ready?’ she called moments later.

Jess raised her eyebrows as I passed her a sheet of loo roll to wipe her nose. It was the pleated stuff, with flowers on and softer than a powder puff.

‘It’s Melissa. I just need to see her back to her house. Don’t ask!’ I whispered. ‘I won’t be long and then I’ll tell you all about Deborah’s visit. You get yourself to bed. How on earth did you cycle home? You should have called me to pick you up and–’

‘Stop fussing,’ she said, in clipped tones.

‘I’m only trying to help.’ What was it, with her?

‘Someone got a bit of a hangover?’ said velvet tones. ‘I know just how you feel… Nessie, isn’t it? Cheap champagne. That always does it for me. What’s your poison?’

‘Human Chorionic Gonadotropin, if you must know,’ Jess barked as she met Melissa in the hallway. ‘And the name’s Jess. Not Nessie, nor Bessie, nor Tess.’

‘Oh, um, okay, Jess,’ said Melissa. ‘Not sure I’ve heard of that cocktail.’

Jess shook her head, and muttered something about an airhead. Although to be fair, not many would know HCG was the pregnancy hormone. Jess was clever like that and shone at pub quizzes. She knew what DNA stood for and could even spell that place in Wales with the longest name in Europe.

‘I’m shattered; going to lie down,’ mumbled the brainbox. She kicked off her trainers and with heavy footsteps made her way upstairs. Her bedroom door slammed. I shrugged at Melissa and we headed back to the patio doors.

‘Take this,’ said Melissa, after staring at her wedding finger for a moment. She slid off her famous yellow diamond ring. My stomach tingled as she passed it to me.

‘You’re not serious?’ I muttered and held it in the air, tilting it from side to side. The pear shape gem twinkled like the insides of a golden kaleidoscope.

‘I dropped hints to Jonny after seeing the film…’

‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s,’ I said.

Melissa half-smiled. ‘You really
do
read all the magazines. Yes. As soon as I saw that yellow Tiffany diamond on Audrey Hepburn, normal diamonds never quite looked the same. Put it on. Flaunt it at those cameras.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Look after it for me.’

Wow. This rock was worth more than… than the average semi in Luton. I curled my fingers tight so that it couldn’t possibly fall off. Melissa glanced sideways at me.

I grinned. ‘Worried I’ll run off?’

‘Like to see you try, with all the paparazzi’s motorbikes waiting outside!’ She smiled. ‘See you soon. Ciao.’

I left the kitchen for the hallway, shoulders back, head high. Now I felt like a real celebrity – special, different, somehow taller. I put on her trainers (ooh, weird sole, they looked like those fancy weight loss ones), grabbed my big bug sunglasses from the kitchen table, picked up a magazine from the hallway table and stepped out of the front door. I hoped no one saw me briefly stumble. In the weird trainers, I felt like I was walking on a wobble board. Plus it was hard to resist the urge to pull down the tracksuit bottoms. They’d wedged right up in between my legs. I held my lips in a “blowing up a balloon” position, in the hope that they’d look more plump.

‘Melissa! Woo hoo! Over ‘ere love! We thought we saw you leg it to your neighbour’s a while back.’

‘Yo! Melissa!’ yelled a man’s voice. ‘Look up, love! Give us a nice smile! Where’s Jonny?’

Sexy walk? Check. Flaunting ring? Check. Superior celebrity expression on face? Hmm, perhaps I should lose the balloon lips. Even though it had virtually stopped raining, I put up my umbrella and ducked underneath. Yikes, if only Melissa had been wearing a coat, it was freezing. And to match the winter temperatures, I must have looked extremely cool, as I sashayed down the drive, as if on a red carpet, approaching the clicking cameras and shouts. So what if they didn’t know who I really was? At least I might finally get my picture in Infamous.

Talking of which, I held the magazine over my modest B cup chest. The sound of snapping shutters and pong of cigarette smoke overwhelmed me as I turned left. The Winsfords’ place wasn’t far but with these men crowding around, poking their lenses under my nose, the short walk began to feel like a marathon.

‘Give us a quote, Melissa. Anything. Come on, love, then we’ll leave yer alone.’

‘Why don’t you take off those glasses?’ called a voice.

‘Or get out those tits,’ sniggered someone else.

I pulled the umbrella down further, like a shield. Mustn’t perspire in Melissa’s top. Mustn’t trip. Mustn’t talk. MUSTN’T LOSE RING. Hey, so far I was doing pretty good.

‘Stuck-up bitch,’ someone muttered.

‘You look a bit rough,’ said a nearby voice. I glanced to my right and spotted muddy combat trousers. It was the photographer who’d given me his silver card.

‘Understandable, though,’ he continued. ‘All this talk of Jonny fooling around with another blonde. Likes playing twosomes away, doesn’t he? Everyone knows golfers are the new footballers. Do yer trust him or is yer marriage under par?’

Melissa had been right. This was all about another false kiss ‘n’ tell.

‘Don’t you worry about letting yerself go though, love,’ he continued. ‘I think it’s admirable that yer happy to put on some weight – you were a lot slimmer the last time I saw you this close.’ He blew smoke in my face. ‘In fact, yer arse looks almost big enough to pinch. If it goes to print, it might inspire yer to get into shape before the big tournaments kick off, in the spring. Can’t have the cute little American golfing Wags seeing yer look less like a petite birdie and more like an albatross.’

Cheeks flaming, I quickened my pace but a couple of men appeared from nowhere, on the pavement in front. I dodged them and put my head down further, praying I wouldn’t fall off the kerb or walk into a lamppost.

‘What’s yer problem, love? All we want is one good shot.’

‘We’re starving – got any posh nosh?’

‘Show us a bit of cleavage. Where’s your sense of fun?’

Ignoring the insults, I pushed forward, heart racing. One of the quieter photographers growled at the men to move out of my way and pushed me gently onto Melissa’s drive. ‘Haven’t you got daughters or sisters?’ I heard him mutter to the others and then something about how they should be ashamed. Gratefully, I charged towards the house. Being trailed by the paparazzi hadn’t lived up to my fantasy at all.